


No Easy Way Down

by IamShadow21



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Race Changes, Amputation, Civilian Life, Cross-Generational Friendship, Disability, Education, Foster Care, Friendship, Gen, Gen Fic, Group Homes, Homelessness, Hospitals, Humor, Identity, Injury Recovery, Male Character of Color, Mentors, Missing Limb, Penance - Freeform, Permanent Injury, Physical Disability, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prosthesis, Returning Home, Survivor Guilt, Trust Issues, Veterans, references to Battlestar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 09:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1144151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamShadow21/pseuds/IamShadow21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So, some rich white dude walks in yesterday, says he’s gonna make me a robot arm,” Bucky says scathingly. “What an <i>asshole.</i>”</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Easy Way Down

**Author's Note:**

> This story owes a lot to the people who steered me straight and helped me avoid making dreadful unintentional errors regarding race and culture. Firstly, to musesfool, who pointed me at the wiki page for [Battlestar](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battlestar_%28comics%29), which allowed me to write my way out of the same problem Marvel ran into in the eighties, rather than having to scrap the whole story or, heaven forbid, posting it as it had been, unknowingly. Secondly, to whizzy and sandt250, who gently corrected and educated me on why some of my questions were culturally inappropriate. And lastly, to Foxy, beta extraordinaire, who read over the whole story and helped me tidy up the rest.
> 
> This story is a weird amalgam of AUs. It's non-powered, in a lot of ways, but not completely. Steve Rogers is a returned vet, and an extraordinary one, but he's not a super soldier. Tony Stark's story arc is very similar to the films through to mid IM2, but not the same - he's still kidnapped, still frees himself by building a suit, but he's not 'known' as Iron Man, if he even still _is_ Iron Man in this 'verse. (I've left that ambiguous.) It's very much an AU for how certain characters meet, but I've taken some mild influence from early comics canon where James Barnes was a teenager, rather than Steve Rogers' age peer. I've taken closely from Battlestar's reimaging by Marvel to avoid perpetuating unintentional racism, but the character in question is an African-American James Barnes, not Lemar Hoskins. And while I have shifted the race of a character and written a lot about physical disability, this story isn't really primarily about either of those things, so much as it's about the walls we build around ourselves in the wake of trauma, how we hold ourselves back from healing, and how sometimes, the hardest thing isn't the obvious, physical thing, it's taking that mental/emotional step over the wall and learning to live again.

“So, some rich white dude walks in yesterday, says he’s gonna make me a robot arm,” Bucky says scathingly. “What an _asshole._ ” 

“Language,” Steve murmurs, shaving another paper-thin curl of wood away from the whole with his blade.

Bucky doesn’t even slow down. “He sees a sad little black kid in the hospital, and think he gonna _save_ me? Asshole is what he is, man.” 

“You were nice though, right?” Steve asks, already knowing the answer.

“Hell, no. Told him where he could stick it,” Bucky says proudly. “Don't need his fancy white-boy charity.”

Steve sighs. “I'm white,” he reminds Bucky.

“Yeah, but you _been_ places. You been in The System. You been over fighting Al Qaeda. You lost a piece of yourself, like me,” Bucky says, with the unshakeable logic of a thirteen year old who thinks he knows exactly how the world works.

“You gotta learn how to be nice to people you don't like. Otherwise you're just gonna end up in jail,” Steve says, for what feels like the hundredth time. “What do you think?” he asks, holding up the piece for scrutiny.

Bucky reaches out his hand and touches the wood. “Feels like shit,” he says. “I ain't going to jail. I'm too smart.”

“Nobody's too smart for jail,” Steve says. “It feels rough because I haven't sanded it yet. You like the shape?”

Bucky shrugs, noncommittally. “Sure.”

“You're overwhelming me with your enthusiasm,” Steve drawls.

“Hey, man, you want BS, go find some other kid,” Bucky says.

“You get in trouble for being rude to that guy?” Steve asks casually, inwardly wondering how many fires he'll have to put out this time.

“Nah, man. He just laughed and said he'd be back. Never gonna happen. _Asshole_ ,” Bucky pronounces.

Steve doesn't even bother to sigh. “You wanna try some algebra today?”

“Whatever,” Bucky says.

*

Steve doesn't get back to the ward for three whole days. It isn't by choice; his PT was brutal this week, and he woke up barely able to reach for his alarm clock and painkillers. The skin on his stump was red and abraded; he couldn't put his leg on without risking damaging it further. So he sat at home in front of the TV, hoping that today wasn't going to be the day Bucky got bored of a bed to sleep in and three meals a day and skipped out of the ward in the night.

By the time he's feeling more himself and he can put on the leg without wincing, he's certain he's let Bucky down. Though he's called every day, Bucky's voice sounds false and the walls Steve had been working so hard on bringing down have started going back up. Bucky doesn't like promises; he's actively suspicious of them, and Steve can't really blame him for that. So he explains the situation and doesn't set an exact date for his return, because any broken promise would spell the end of the fragile trust that's bloomed in the month they've known each other.

So when he turns the corner and approaches the door to Bucky's ward, he's not letting himself get his hopes up that Bucky will even be there. Or, if he is, Steve is half-expecting him to be in restraints, like he was when they first met. Bucky hadn't even got the stitches out, and he'd tried to break out twice, so the nurses had tied him down, only letting him up for his PT sessions and to pee.

“Change the channel, wouldya?” were Bucky's first words to him. “I hate cartoons.”

What Steve isn't expecting to hear when he gets to Bucky's room is two voices, arguing. 

“Well, I _could_ make it without measuring, but then if you ended up with an arm right down to your knees, it would be all your fault. Not mine, my work is perfect, but even I can't work without parameters.” 

“You put that hand anywhere but my arm, I'mma bite it off,” Bucky grumbles. 

“Not scream for help?”

Bucky makes a scoffing sound. “Screaming never helped nobody.”

“I find it quite cathartic, actually, but you're right, nobody really bothers listening.”

“Well, you _do_ talk shit,” Bucky says.

“Just for that, I'm gonna make it candy pink.”

“You wouldn't,” Bucky says.

“Would too.”

“Nuh uh.”

“Would _times infinity._ ”

“Can I help you?” Steve says from the doorway.

The strange man and Bucky look up. “Who are you?” the man asks.

“I'm Steve Rogers, Bucky's big brother,” Steve says.

The man takes a long look at Steve, then at Bucky, then back at Steve. “From another mother?” he asks slowly.

“Fool, he ain't _black_ ,” Bucky says scathingly.

“I can see that,” the man says.

“It's a mentoring program,” Steve explains, before the bickering can start again.

“They paired us up because we're both crips,” Bucky explains cheerfully.

“I thought your name was James,” the man says.

Bucky scowls. “Would _you_ wanna be called _James?_ ”

“I'll have you know one of my best friends is called James and he... well, he gets everyone to call him Rhodey. Fair point.”

“I'm sorry, but what exactly are you doing here?” Steve asks.

The man immediately stands, turns on a thousand-watt smile and holds out a hand. “Tony Stark. I'm-”

“I think every serviceman knows who you are, Mr Stark,” Steve says drily.

“Right, sure. I'm making changes, though. I'm sorry about...” Stark trails off, flapping a hand in the vicinity of Steve's leg.

“It wasn't ordnance. I had to land a plane under less than ideal circumstances,” Steve says.

“Oh, you're an airman? So's Rhodey,” Stark says, looking a little more relaxed. He sits down again. 

“Nah, I'm Army. The pilot was dead, so I winged it, so to speak. Got it mostly right,” Steve says with a crooked grin. “But like they say, close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.”

“Yeah,” Stark says, a little distantly, rubbing the heel of his hand over his chest. “What about you, squirt?” Stark asks, giving Bucky a gentle nudge with his shoulder on Bucky's good side. “Parachuting out of a fighter jet with an AK-47? Snowmobile accident? Hardcore fashion statement?” 

“Shark attack,” Bucky says, utterly straight-faced.

“Shoulda punched it in the nose.”

“Should punch _you_ in the nose.”

“When I fit you with your new arm, you can punch anyone in the nose you like.”

“No, you _can't_ ,” Steve protests.

*

Stark takes off at some point, muttering about lightweight alloys. Steve takes the opportunity to immediately start quizzing Bucky on _The Outsiders_. Unlike the last text he'd had to read for school, Bucky rather adores it. The subject matter is rather closer to his experience, Steve suspects.

“What do you think the message is, overall?” Steve asks.

“Don't go running round with no rich white girls,” Bucky says.

“I think 'stay in school, don't hang around with gangs, and don't carry knives' would go down better in your essay,” Steve suggests.

“You got a knife,” Bucky points out.

“It's a multitool, I use it for whittling, not fighting,” Steve argues.

“Sure you do. Not like you need it, anyways. Bet you could take down muthas just _lookin'_ at them in a bad way,” Bucky says, looking up and down Steve's muscles.

“That's not the point,” Steve attempts.

*

When Steve walks through the hospital doors, Tony Stark is standing there eating a banana.

“So the kid. What's his story?” Stark asks.

“Shouldn't you be asking him that?” Steve says. 

Stark shrugs. “Tried. Don't think he trusts me.”

“He doesn't trust anyone,” Steve says.

“Huh. Smart,” Stark says, taking a bite of banana and chewing. “He trusts you, though.”

“Barely,” Steve admits.

“Where you headed?” Stark asks.

“Bus stop across the street,” Steve says, nodding in the direction of the sad little shelter covered in graffiti and posters for dance clubs.

“No, I mean, where are you going?” Stark asks, a little impatiently. “I've got a car.”

Right on cue, a sleek limo pulls into the ambulance bay. Steve hesitates.

“C'mon, Happy can't park here, they might have an emergency or something. Let me take you home; it's no trouble.”

Steve dithers an extra moment, then steps towards the car. “I live in Brooklyn,” he warns.

“Brooklyn's fine. Brooklyn, Happy, and don't spare the horses,” Stark says shooing Steve into the car and sliding in behind him.

*

“So, how long have you been dong this mentoring thing? Or have you always been a boy scout?” Stark asks, while _pouring a drink._

“Six months. Keeps me busy,” Steve says, staring at the whiskey and soda that has appeared in his hand. “I got restless sitting at home.”

“I can imagine,” Stark says, amused.

“I'm sorry?” Steve asks, just starting to get annoyed.

“'I was in the Army'?” Stark quotes. “I looked you up, while I was waiting for you to come out. You were a _Howling Commando._ It's a wonder you can stand to sit still for five minutes at a time.”

“That's classified,” Steve bites out.

“Sure, whatever. The point is, you are a genuine badass with the medals to prove it. Am I right?”

“I served my country,” Steve says noncommittally.

Stark snorts. “And now you mentor wayward youth to stop yourself climbing the walls. How's that working out for you?”

“Just fine,” Steve says, his tone going terse.

“I can tell, from the way you're about to bust that glass you're holding,” Stark says mildly, a little smile on his face.

“Is everything a joke to you?” Steve asks.

“Hardly,” Stark drawls. “There's a lot I really can't laugh at, these days.”

“Is _Bucky_ a joke? Because if you're screwing with him, walk away now,” Steve says, letting that edge creep into his voice that he'd thought he'd never have to bring out again once he hung up his uniform.

“I'm not screwing with the kid,” Stark says, suddenly serious. “I'll prove it to you, if you don't believe me.”

Steve just watches Stark over the edge of the glass of scotch he hasn't touched.

Stark pushes a button. “Change of plans, Happy, swing past the tower. I'm taking Captain America here to Candyland.”

The limo turns around back towards Manhattan, and Steve doesn't say a word, just watches the ice melt into the amber liquid in his hand.

*

“This is...” Steve grasps for an appropriate word. He settles on, “...something.”

“I know, right?” Stark answers, with a boyish grin. He's sitting on a swivel chair like a king, twirling back and forth in glee. “C'mere, I want to show you Bucky's arm. It's just an early schematic, but it's going to be _awesome._ ” He propels himself over to a work station, and starts tapping away at a keyboard that just _appears_ , like the holograms did when they entered the workshop.

Diagrams of what does indeed look very much like a robot arm appear in mid air.

“He should have full range of movement when it's installed. It's lightweight, and with just a teensy neural implant, he'll be able to do pretty much anything he used to do with his old arm. No sensation, of course, but with training and practice, he'll be the coolest kid with a robot arm at his school.”

“This is just...” Steve spreads his hands. He doesn't know what word he's looking for. Amazing, generous, extravagant...

“It's no big deal. Since I got back stateside, I've been working on designs for mechanised armour,” Tony says, rubbing his breastbone with his fingertips. “It's really not that different. I had to scale the casing down to thirteen-year-old smartass size, but I didn't need to be able to fit an actual arm inside, so it was just a matter of reshuffling the components to take up the whole space.”

Steve reaches out a hand; at his touch, the picture expands and slowly revolves. “This is beautiful,” he murmurs, finding the right thing to say at last.

Stark just smiles, reaches in as well, activates something to make the model flex and bend and grip and articulate. “So, what happened with him? I don't need all the gory details, I just want to at least know where the land mines are before I stomp all over them in my big boots.”

Steve shrugs. “Foster care. Runaway. Broke his arm, or someone broke it for him. Open fracture. By the time one of the other kids at the squat realised he was ill, it was septic. He almost died.”

“He's right. Shark attack sounds way better.”

Steve can't help but huff a laugh.

“Knew you still had a sense of humour in there, somewhere,” Stark says.

*

Bucky is sullen and miserable the whole next week. He's rude, he won't focus on his schoolwork, and he keeps reaching for the arm that isn't there any more. Steve's been there, so he eases back on the geography and Civil War history, and teaches Bucky how to spot dealing from the bottom of the deck instead.

“Boy scouts don't cheat at cards,” Stark says with mock-horror. He's leaning against the doorframe, holding one of those shiny aluminium briefcases. “It's against their do-gooder pact, or something.”

“Never said I was a boy scout; you assumed,” Steve says with a lazy grin. “And scouts may not cheat, but soldiers _do_ , and they carry automatic firearms, so if you're gonna cheat, you'd better be _good._ ” He fans the cards, holds them out, face-down. “Pick one.”

Stark tugs one free, flips it over. On the face, the Joker cavorts. “You did that on purpose.”

Steve says nothing, just plucks the card back, shuffles it seamlessly into the deck.

“I'll make you tell me how you did it later. For now, it's presents for the birthday boy,” Stark says, sitting the case on the bed, laying it flat to pop it open. It doesn't have a lock that Steve can see, just a shiny spot that Stark presses the pad of his index finger to, before the whole thing slides open with an almost silent pneumatic hiss.

“It ain't my birthday,” Bucky gripes, but he's craning his head up from the pillow to try and see the contents.

“I missed your last one, I know. But gimme a break, I was in a cave, very much lower than the five star rating I'm used to. I had to fire my travel agents. This is better than birthdays, though, trust me,” Stark says with his glitziest grin. “This is _awesome._ ”

Inside the case, there's an arm. It's bright pink, and there's a decal of Pinkie Pie on the bicep.

Bucky takes one close look then _loses it._ He's making the bed shake, he's giggling so hard.

“The kids at school gonna _beat my ass_ ,” he gasps out between chuckles, but he's reaching out and stroking the lurid metal regardless.

“Chill out, it's just a prototype,” Stark says, his eyes shining with mirth. He holds out something that looks a bit like those headsets call centre operators wear. “Wanna play?”

“Sure,” Bucky says.

“This is a neural net. Not as precise as the implant will be, but good enough to get some baselines, enough for me to work with when I'm programming the final model,” Stark slips it on to Bucky's head, over his fuzz of curls. “And this, I'm gonna need your help for this,” Stark says to Steve, lifting a harness out. “Not tight today, just enough to hold it on him. I don't want to damage the surgical site.”

They somehow wrangle the straps and buckles into submission over Bucky's t-shirt, and then Tony gently settles the arm into the cradle of the harness and locks it in.

“The boot sequence takes a while, sorry,” Stark says, tapping on some kind of glass tablet. “I'm working on it, for the next model. Deal me in.” He nods at the cards Steve's still holding. 

“You better not be taking pictures,” Bucky says, his face screwing up suspiciously at the tablet in Stark's hands.

“You're kidding me, right? This is going straight up on Youtube.”

“You do and I'll cut you,” Bucky says, scowling.

“Are we playing cards, or what?” Steve asks.

*

“I don't get you,” Steve says. He's in the back of the limo _again_ , because he just opened his mouth to say the word _bus_ and Stark threatened to come out in hives just from the thought of using public transportation.

“What's to get?” Stark asks casually.

“You're rich, you're smart, you're famous. You're with a new girl half your age every week. You could be a million other places, doing a million other things.”

“You think this is a stunt?” Stark's voice is neutral, his gaze distant.

“I don't know what to think,” Steve replies honestly. “You apologised for my leg, the first day we met. Maybe this is some kind of penance.”

“Is that what it is for you?” Stark asks.

Steve doesn't reply, because he doesn't truly know the answer. Stark doesn't press him.

*

The next arm Stark brings in is a solid deep silver. Bucky is enamoured with it.

“That's just the base colour,” Stark almost pleads. “You can make it any colour you want. I could match your skin tone, but that's boring, just about everyone has arm-coloured arms.”

“I like the metal,” Bucky says stroking it as it hangs inert at his side for the boot sequence.

“Seriously, _any colour you want_ ,” Stark says, like Bucky's hurting his soul. “Poison green. Hot rod red. _Gold_ , kid. It could be gold, with red stripes, or something.”

Bucky thinks for a long moment. “I like red. Maybe a little red. Not all red though. And not gold, that's just _sad._ ”

“Your lack of taste in the matter of flamboyant paint jobs makes _me_ sad. Who the hell likes the base colour?”

“I like it,” Steve chips in, with a grin.

Stark throws up his hands and lets out a gusty sigh.

*

“You live in a walk-up?” Stark asks in dismay. He's followed Steve up the stairs today, for some reason, rather than just zooming off in the limo the moment Steve's feet hit the curb. “Are you insane?”

Steve doesn't have the energy for anger. “What I am, Mr Stark, is an unemployed, pensioned-off soldier who went straight into the Army once he graduated high school.”

“I thought you'd at least be on the ground floor,” Stark says, looking back down the dizzying shaft to the entrance foyer tiles.

“Mrs Rosenbaum lives on the ground floor, and Mr Arden, the caretaker. They're both in their nineties,” Steve says, jiggling his keys in the sticky lock.

“Are they original to the building?” Stark asks, poking at the layers of cheap, flaking paint, showing green, blue, beige, salmon and butter yellow, right down to the plaster.

“Not that I know, but it's possible,” Steve acknowledges with a smile. “C'mon in.”

The apartment is full of shadow. Steve tugs open a curtain and turns on the standing lamp. He doesn't bother with the overhead bulb. It blew three months back, and asking Mr Arden to hump a ladder up and climb to the top of it seems unfair. Stark glances up at the ceiling, but doesn't say a word.

On the hotplate, there's a pot of Everything Soup he made last night. He pokes it with a wooden spoon. “You hungry?”

Stark shrugs. “I could eat.”

Steve turns on the hotplate, stirs the soup a bit, puts the lid on. “Shouldn't take long. I've got dinner rolls, there, behind you.” Stark turns, fumbles in the bread bin and emerges with a plastic bag of rolls with a big 'special!' sticker on it. “Bakery down the road makes everything fresh themselves. They sell off what they couldn't sell the day before really cheap first thing in the morning. It's worth getting up for. Last week, I got a whole sack of sticky buns, glazed doughnuts and fruit bread. I've still got a bunch in the freezer.”

Stark is still staring at the golden rolls with their dusting of flour in confusion. 

“There's butter in the fridge, knives in the drawer under the counter, there,” Steve says, pointing with his spoon.

“Right,” says Stark, seeming to snap out of the daze he'd been in. He locates the butter and knives without trouble, and sets to preparing the rolls in silence.

“You like spice, right? I tend to go heavy on the pepper,” Steve admits, after a taste.

“Spice is good,” Stark says. There's a little pile of buttered rolls beside him. They're cut a little crooked, and the butter looks thicker than Steve would spread it himself, but that's mainly because of thrift rather than because he doesn't like it that way.

“Does your driver want any? I've got Tupperware around, somewhere,” Steve says, opening a cupboard.

“Nah, I told Happy I'd call him when I was done. He's probably gone to get a ruben.”

Steve grabs the ladle from the drying rack and neatly dishes out two generous serves into bowls. There's no table, just a breakfast bar with a pair of mismatched stools, but it's not like he regularly has company, so it suits him just fine. Stark brings the breadboard over, stacked with rolls, and sits himself down. If the first mouthful Stark takes is a little tentative, the ones that follow are not.

“This is really good,” Stark says when he takes a moment to tear his roll into pieces to sop up the soup.

“Every week or two, I clear out my refrigerator and see what's on the edge of going bad. Then, I go to the market down the road and grab whatever looks good from their markdown section; meat, vegetables, pasta, whatever. Got some ham bones, once, they were good. And I stick it all in a pot and cook it all day with a bunch of water and most of my spice rack. And that's it. It's always good, and it's always different enough that I don't get bored.”

“Your mom teach you that?” Stark asks. If it was in his usual, imperious tone, Steve might bristle, but it's gentle, like he's giving Steve a chance to back away.

“Yeah,” Steve replies.

“From the start, I kinda pictured you with this big family around you, but...” Stark gestures at the flat, at the empty walls, at the refrigerator door, free of anything but bills and the grocery list. There's a desk in the corner cluttered with papers, but the pictures on the wall near it are Steve's own, sketches of things he's designing, of things he wants to remember, of things he's trying to process.

“It's been just me for a long time,” Steve says, stirring his food. “My parents died when I was young. Then it was foster care, mostly group homes. The leg isn't the only reason me and Bucky got assigned each other.”

“I lost my folks when I was seventeen,” Stark says, his face still and his eyes anywhere but Steve's face. He's shredding his roll into tiny flakes. “I mean, I didn't have to go into foster care, but I had guardians and advocates and all that crap. I wasn't my own man until I took over my company when I turned twenty-one. It was... lonely.”

Steve's pretty sure that long before Stark came of age, he was all over the gossip magazines, making the most glorious, sensational mess of himself that he could. On the surface, he can't imagine having the chance to be lonely with that kind of life, but the more he thinks about it, the more he suspects what a deep dark hole that could turn out to be.

“'s why I joined the Army. Suddenly I had a whole squadron of brothers,” Steve says.

“And a license to _literally_ jump out of airplanes for a living.”

“Didn't hurt,” Steve says with a cheeky grin. “'Cept when it did.”

*

“Bucky! Steve! The gang's all here,” Stark says, sliding into the hospital room like a rockstar strolling onstage.

“That ain't my name,” Bucky says with a deep scowl.

“Hey, Stark,” says Steve, smoothing a rough patch of his carving with a few swipes of sandpaper.

“Say what, now?” Stark says, caught halfway through a step, staring at the cranky kid in the bed.

“I don't want no _slave name_ ,” not-Bucky growls.

“He actually did his American History homework for once,” Steve says, puffing his cheeks to blow away sawdust.

“You didn't come yesterday. I got bored,” not-Bucky grouches.

“So what are you, James X, now?” Stark asks.

“Maybe. I haven't decided yet,” Maybe-James-X admits.

“Well, that's great. That's not confusing at all. Well, nameless kid, you up for a field trip?” Stark flaps a hand at the doorway, where Happy's standing with a wheelchair.

“Hell, yes,” Maybe-James-X says, sliding from the bed and digging through the little cupboard for a battered pair of jeans that have seen better days and are three inches short in the legs. “They took my shoes when I kept trying to blow this place, before,” he admits.

“No problem,” Stark says. “Just let Happy drive. We'll pick you up some threads and shoes on the way.”

“On the way to where?” Steve finally thinks to ask.

“Not far. Don't worry, it's all arranged,” Stark says, as Maybe-James-X parks himself in the wheelchair and tries to incite Happy to push him down the hall at running-speed.

*

They swing past SoHo and drop an obscene amount on what looks to Steve like a regular pair of jeans and some Converse and a handful of t-shirts in a few different colours. By the time they emerge, there's a handful of paparazzi circling like piranhas, shouting out questions and setting camera flashes off right in their faces.

“Just out shopping with a couple of friends, guys,” Stark says, shepherding Steve and Maybe-James-X to the limo with Happy's help.

“Sorry about that. You'll be in the evening rags with a bunch of hideous speculation, I'm afraid. You try and gag these vultures, and they just think they're on to something and cling on tighter,” Stark waves a dismissive hand. “I usually just ignore them.” 

They swing into the underground parking for Stark Tower, as Steve suspected they might.

“Hey, kids, daddy's home,” Stark announces when he gets out of the car, and three machines that Steve hadn't seen last time he visited trundle over and crowd around Stark like faithful dogs greeting their master.

“What _are_ these?” Steve asks, staring at the machines in wonder.

“Helper bots. Well, they were _supposed_ to be helper bots. Mainly, they're just colossal pains in my ass,” Stark says with a fond smile. Maybe-James-X sidles close enough to poke one with his fingertip; it swivels to look at him and he backs up a step, involuntarily. “As you can see, robot arms, not exactly new territory for me. I built Dummy here when I was in college.” He slaps a hand against the body of one of the bots. Steve notices that it turns into a little caress, a rub and pat, before he whirls away towards the workstation.

“Had the fabrication units working all last night,” Stark says, typing rapid commands. “We're ready to rock and roll, once X-Man here chooses a paint job.”

The next half an hour is spent poking and prodding at the digital model of the arm with a program that simulates paint brushes and air brushes and textures, and while Steve's kind of fascinated, it's a whole kind of art he's never done anything of before. The old chunky laptop he got through a veteran's charity he barely turns on, except for email, since it started making alarmingly loud whirring noises. He certainly doesn't have the capability to paint and draw and design on it. Even though plain old pen and paper and ink have done him fine up until now, watching Stark and Maybe-James-X effortlessly create and junk and reimagine without waste, without effort, makes him _want._ He pulls his whittling from his pocket and crushes the longing ruthlessly.

“You're _sure_ that's what you wanna go with,” Stark finally asks, dubiously.

“Yes,” Maybe-James-X says with certainty.

“Not even a little bit of-”

“ _No._ ”

“Fine, it's your arm. No take-backs if you change your mind, though.”

“Like you couldn't just spray it something different in your fancy machine later, anyway,” Maybe-James-X sasses back.

“Yeah, fine, point. JARVIS, make it so,” Stark says.

The arm Stark lifts from the unit ten minutes later is sleek and shining. It fits into the new and improved harness (one that Maybe-James-X can put on and remove himself) with a clean, smooth snick, locking in place automatically. Stark explains the movement and the unlocking mechanism clearly, getting Maybe-James-X to repeat it several times until he's satisfied.

“Okay, I got it, can we do the cool stuff, now?” Maybe-James-X snaps impatiently.

“All right, genius, think you can turn it on? Be my guest,” Stark says with a grin.

“Ha ha, you're real funny,” Maybe-James-X drawls, pushing the big button on the inner wrist labelled 'START'.

There's an almost imperceptible hum when the arm powers up that Steve can feel, like it's got a bunch of magnets inside it or something. Steve supposes it might. He's not an engineer. 

The big START button blinks on and off half a dozen times or so before it settles into a steady, solid green.

“And we're up. Boot sequence, I streamlined it a lot. Lifetime guarantee on firmware updates, by the way. I can do better. Regretting the paint job, yet, kid?”

Maybe-James-X is stroking the contours of the arm. It's bulkier than the prototypes, with a definite bulge of bicep and forearm muscles. Despite Stark's pestering, Maybe-James-X had held firm on the colour scheme. The arm is a solid, metallic grey, with one exception – a red, five pointed star on the point of the shoulder that he is tracing the lines of with a fingertip. “No way. This is the coolest.”

“Baby's first tattoo,” Stark says with a sigh. “Well, a respray is less painful than laser removal, or so they tell me. Show me some moves, let me see how the new platform is handling.”

Maybe-James-X curls up the forearm, lets the middle finger pop up from the fist.

Stark's lips crease up into a smirk. “Not much of a lag, even with the net rather than the implant. Oh and,” Stark says, flicking Maybe-James-X a peace sign before inverting it. “So, you thought of a new name yet? Because if you don't come up with something soon, I'm going to start calling you Barney.”

Maybe-James-X wrinkles his nose. “Like the _dinosaur?_ ”

“You're right, that blows,” Stark admits. “Iron Fist?”

“Do you know what the kids at school gonna do with that?” Maybe-James-X says disparagingly.

“It's a gold-titanium alloy anyway, not iron, but branding's never about truth, it's about what sounds good. Oooh!” Stark snaps his fingers and points at the decal on the shoulder. “Battlestar!”

“Are you for real?”

“No?” Stark asks.

Maybe-James-X just looks at him.

“Oh, fine, X-Man. You wound me. I'm tempted to not show you the coolest thing about this latest rebuild,” Stark says airily.

Maybe-James-X hesitates, then affects nonchalance. “Like you gonna let me walk outta here without showing it off,” he teases. 

“You're right, I suck at self control. Over here,” Stark says, leading Maybe-James-X over to stand in front of a wall where there's a little target set up, a basic one with concentric rings. “Push this button here, then point with your finger,” he says, getting Maybe-James-X to point his hand straight at the target, “and squeeze your middle finger and...”

A dart rises from the forearm and zips through the air to land in the middle of the orange ring.

“ _Awesome_ ,” Maybe-James-X says with relish.

“I know, right?” Stark enthuses.

“ _No weapons_ ,” Steve grits out.

“It's a Nerf gun. Well, it was. All air compression, foam rubber and velcro. See?” Stark plucks the dart from the board, holds it out to Steve.

“Not the point,” Steve says, resisting the urge to facepalm. “They expelled a kid a while back for _drawing_ a gun, as in, pencil and paper. Don't you think the school's going to object to a weaponised arm?”

“Right. Kid, whatever your name is, if I find out you've whipped that out at school, I'm swapping that arm for the pink one with the pony on it, permanently. That is purely for relieving boredom and terrorising the nurses.”

“Got it,” Maybe-James-X says, firing another dart, closer to the centre this time.

*

When they get back to the hospital, Steve finds out that 'it's all arranged' means 'we snuck the kid out and hoped to get him back before you noticed'. He's never seen Stark so subdued as when he's being berated by the head nurse, the social worker and the two police officers who responded to the missing child report. He keeps his head bowed, shuffles his feet, and says very little but 'yes' and 'no' and 'sorry'. Steve catches himself standing as close as he can manage to parade rest, his hands clasped behind him and his eyes fixed on the wall, weathering the storm.

Maybe-James-X sits on his bed, looking about as smug as you'd expect a kid watching adults getting shouted at by authority figures, while also in possession of a new robot arm, to look. When the angry authorities finally leave, he says, “That was the coolest thing I ever saw,” before shooting a dart at Stark's head, where it sticks in his artfully mussed hair.

“Well, I haven't felt like that since I got expelled from boarding school. Well, schools. There were a few,” Stark says with a gusty sigh, like he's been holding his breath since the shouting started.

“You get yelled at a lot when you join the Army, but it did take me right back to standing in front of Mother Superior's desk,” Steve says with a mild shiver.

Suddenly Tony's phone rings with _Ride of the Valkyries._ “Hi, Pepper,” he says with an enormous wince. 

“Pepper, Pep... it's not as bad as it sounds,” Stark tries, a second later.

A woman's voice rings through the small room, even though Stark doesn't have it on speaker phone. “ _ABDUCTING A CHILD, TONY?_ ”

“Okay, when you put it like that,” Stark admits, rubbing a hand over his face.

*

Steve wakes, a week later, and can't move for the pain. There's a muscle cramping that he can feel all the way down to the toes of the foot that _isn't there any more, dammit_ , and pushing his fingertips in as firm as they'll go isn't releasing it, they're just another hurt on top of it.

Just-Call-Me-James-Then has a social worker coming the day after tomorrow to talk about his placement when he gets discharged a week from today. He's nervous and he's miserable and Steve's got a terrible feeling that now that he's up to weight and off the antibiotics and is learning how to do things like tie his shoes again without assistance, that Steve'll turn up one day and James will just be gone, like he never was. He can't just _not turn up._

He gets as far as the sofa and has to lie down again, in a cold sweat and shaking. It isn't going to work, as much as he wants to push through and suck it up and _keep going, soldier, or are you a quitter, the Army doesn't take quitters._ Two years ago he would have laughed through the pain and grinned through the blood on his teeth. Half of his squadron are still doing just that, the other half are in Arlington. Or, the memorials to them are, anyway.

Steve picks up his phone and dials a number. “I need your help,” he says.

Then, when he's hung up, he takes off his leg, swallows his muscle relaxants and his painkillers, and shuts his eyes.

*

When he wakes up, Tony Stark is hovering near his ceiling, on a ladder.

“I'm not dreaming,” Steve says, but it comes out more tentative than he'd like.

“No, you're not. Unless you have some weird fantasy about me coming and changing your lightbulbs for you, in which case, who am I to judge, carry on, soldier,” Stark says, putting the base of the spent bulb between his teeth while he screws the fresh one into the socket.

“How did you get in?” Steve wades through the fog of sleepiness enough to ask.

“Your landlord, I introduced myself. Nice guy. Let me borrow his ladder. You got any more that need changing, or is this the only one?”

“The one in the bathroom keeps flickering,” Steve admits.

“Huh. Well, if it's not a fluorescent, it might be the wiring, in a place this old.” Stark descends, tucking the burnt bulb neatly into the box from the new one for disposal. “I can take a look for you.”

“What are you _doing_ here, Stark?” Steve asks finally. “Is James okay?”

“The kid? Sure, he's fine. I helped him with his physics homework. Sure-fire A+, there,” he says, with a cheesy grin that means _I did his homework, so sue me._ “And it's Tony,” he adds.

“Tony,” Steve repeats.

“Have you got any more of that soup?” Tony asks casually, but there's a note of wistfulness there, like he's been hankering for it.

“Was gonna put together a new pot today,” Steve says. “I've got a few carrots that've seen better days, they'll be good in it. I don't think I'm up for getting to the market, though, so I'm not sure I've got enough to make a big serve.”

“I might have brought some stuff. Well, when I say I, I mean I said to Pepper, 'I need some stuff', and she got me stuff,” Tony says, flapping a hand at Steve's breakfast bar. Steve cranes his head to see a large woven basket full of a riot of colourful produce. “Will that do?”

“Yeah, that'll do,” Steve says faintly.

*

Steve doesn't think he's ever made Everything Soup from produce so nice. It's all perfectly fresh and ripe and he's pretty sure most if not all of it is organic, given the lack of labels and stickers and the pleasing irregularity of the shapes and sizes. Tony had brought the basket over, and then rummaged through Steve's kitchen for knives and the breadboard and the clean pot that had been sitting on the stove top. Now, they're sitting at his coffee table chopping vegetables into rough chunks, like that's a normal thing to be doing together. Steve's a bit turned around by the whole experience of knowing Tony by this point; so maybe it is.

“So,” Tony says conversationally, “I had a bit of a look while you were asleep, and your leg is a piece of high-grade military shit. I think monkeys could do better. I know Dummy and U and Butterfingers could, and they're not safe to leave unsupervised with the blender half the time.”

Steve can feel his mouth folding into a grim line. “It's what I've got to work with,” he says eventually.

“Sure, I mean, you're a Howling Commando, you're used to taking a shit set of circumstances, impossible odds, unbelievable dangers, you name it, and making it work for you. But what if you didn't have to?” Tony says.

“I don't want to talk about this,” Steve says, reaching for another vegetable.

“I talked to the kid, he says you're laid up every couple of weeks like this. That you warned him, when they started talking prosthetics at the hospital, that they weren't a magic bullet, that they came with a price, that sometimes you had to improvise and tough it out.”

“It's true,” Steve says.

“Sure, to a degree. But I did my homework, and if they're made and fitted right to begin with, they shouldn't give you the amount of grief you're going through,” Tony says.

“Please, just-” Steve breathes deep, holds it, lets it out again. “Stop, please.”

“Okay,” Tony says softly, like he's aware he's crossed a line.

“You can't fix everything, Tony,” Steve says. Tony doesn't reply.

*

The group home has a slight air of institution about it, but it's clean, and the atmosphere is decidedly casual in a way that Steve knows from experience can't be easily faked. The staff aren't wearing uniforms, or even name badges. The kids themselves, teenagers, really, are playing video games, busy with homework, doing chores. One girl is heavily pregnant, another is bouncing a baby about six months old on her knee while studying what looks like Shakespeare's sonnets. Steve can see at least three of the boys have tattoos snaking down their arms or up the sides of their necks. There's a girl with marks on her arms, though whether they're scars from drug use or cigarette burns, Steve can't tell without staring.

“Most of our kids got pasts,” Nina, who's showing him around, says. “Abuse, all kinds. Drugs. Jail. Gangs. Lot of them been on the street. We take 'em all. They got it easy here, compared to juvie, and they know it. They wanna stay here, they gotta stick to the rules. They get clean, and try and stay that way,” she says, holding up her hand and curling down a finger for each rule. “They gotta respect the staff, the other kids, and themselves. They gotta take care of their belongings, their room, and their chores. They stay in school, or go back to school, community college, apprenticeship, whatever. They got a curfew, and they do what they can to not do anything that would get them arrested. Group is mandatory, twice a week. We got a three strikes policy, and we do our best to help every kid we get.”

It's not a _home_ , but Steve looks over at where James is sitting on the couch. He's smiling shyly at the baby, and obviously fielding questions about the arm, from the way he tugs up his t-shirt sleeve to show off the star.

It's not a home, but maybe it's close enough, for now.

*

Steve feels a bit lost when he gets outside. He reaches his bus stop and keeps on walking, block after block, until the pain in his leg and his back won't let him continue. He flags a cab that appears like a miracle, and finds himself telling the driver to take him to Stark Tower, rather than home to Brooklyn.

“You a vet?” the driver asks, and Steve wonders if his past is written on his face for a moment, until he remembers he wore his surplus jacket today against the chill of approaching winter. 

“Yeah, you?” he asks, when he catches his breath.

“Vietnam, two tours. Well, almost two,” the driver says, taking a hand off the wheel to waggle it. He's missing the first couple of fingers. “Got a son over in Afghanistan somewhere right now. That where you were?”

“Yes,” says Steve, because he was there a few times.

When they arrive and he tries to pay, the guy waves him off. “Vet's discount. Thank you for your service.”

“Thank you for yours,” Steve says, and snaps what feels like a very rusty salute. The guy just barks a laugh, and returns it.

*

“He doesn't need me any more,” Steve says flatly.

“That may be the dumbest thing you've ever said to me,” Tony replies. “You're still his big brother.”

“But now he's got kids his own age, and support staff, and counsellors, and group therapy,” Steve counters.

“And who's he going to bitch to about all of them? Trust me, you're far from becoming obsolete,” Tony says, taking a large mouthful of coffee. Steve is still just staring into his own. The novelty of it having been brought to him by one of Tony's robots barely dented his mood.

“I guess I just don't want to get in his way,” Steve says.

“You won't. And if you're that worried about cramping his style, you could email him, right?”

“Maybe. They've got a computer,” Steve admits.

“Then what's the hang-up?”

“Mine's been doing this... thing. And making this _noise._ I've been kind of afraid to use it.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “I'm not surprised, given the age of it. I thought you were keeping it for nostalgic purposes when I first saw it.”

“Why didn't you fix that, with the rest?” Steve asks, thinking of Tony perched up a ladder, of Tony rewiring Steve's bathroom switch using only Steve's multitool, of Tony listening intently to Steve's directions about seasoning, while Steve himself is still laid up on the couch.

Tony shrugs. “Computers are full of pretty personal stuff, and I didn't know where the line was. Didn't want to cross it without testing the waters first,” he admits.

“That doesn't sound like you,” Steve says bluntly.

Tony huffs a laugh, shrugs again. “Making changes, remember?”

“Yeah,” Steve says.

“I've been thinking about what you said. About penance. And you're right. I'm trying to make amends, before this kills me.” Tony tugs off his shirt, and the workshop fills with glowing light. 

Steve squints at the device in the centre of Tony's chest. “What is it?”

“Life support, keeping a fistful of shrapnel out of my heart,” Tony says, taking Steve's hand and pulling it up to cover the circle of metal and glass. “It's also slowly poisoning me.”

Steve frowns slightly. “Is there one of these in James's arm?” he asks.

Tony looks startled. “Yeah, two. Tiny ones. Eternal power source so it never goes dead and he never has to plug it in to the wall at night. How did you know?”

“I can feel the tug of the magnet,” Steve says, spreading his hand out, letting the light peek through his fingers.

“Well, aren't you full of surprises,” Tony murmurs.

“Will James be okay?” Steve asks. When Tony looks a little confused, he clarifies, “He won't get sick?”

“Oh, no, not a chance. He'll be fine. It's not radiation, it's the heavy metals leaching into my bloodstream. James's arm isn't grafted to his body, and the arc reactors inside it are completely shielded.”

“And what about you, then?” Steve asks. The skin under his fingertips is red, hot to touch, and mazed with dark lines of infection.

“For a while, I thought maybe it was what I deserved. You know about what happened to me?”

Steve shrugs. “I read about it in the papers at the time.”

“What the papers won't tell you is that I wasn't alone over there. A doctor called Yinsen saved my life, then got shot running distraction so that I could escape. I promised him I'd get him out,” Tony says bitterly. “I thought maybe this was my penance,” he says, covering Steve's hand with his own again.

“But?” Steve prompts.

“But, that's stupid. Because he died making the choice to back me up, to give me time. And if I just give in to it and lie down, then I'm wasting the chance he gave me. To do something with my life, rather than just making things that kill people. So, I'm fighting it. I'm looking for a solution.”

“Good,” Steve says, because there really isn't anything else to say to that.

“I'm making changes, but you can't forget I'm still an asshole, too,” Tony says, like it's an apology. “When I said I looked you up, what I didn't tell you was how deep I dug. I wasn't alone in that cave, and I know you weren't alone on that plane, either.”

Steve tugs his hand away, looks down at the floor.

“James isn't your penance, that damn leg is. You think you deserve to hurt, so you've never complained about the fit, even though you're in pain, every day, when you don't need to be,” Tony says softly.

“You're so far over the line, right now,” Steve says, turning away.

“I know. But I'm also right,” Tony says with quiet certainty. “Men under your command died, and you're punishing yourself for that.”

“They trusted me, trusted my orders,” Steve forces out, though his throat is tight.

“They chose to follow you, and accepted the risks. You either respect that, and live the life you've got, or... waste it.”

Steve thinks that maybe, what feels like a hundred years ago, he would have hurt Tony for what he's saying. He thinks back to dozens of back-alley brawls with kids twice his size, fighting for pride against the smallest slight, fighting for the rush it gave him, the way it made him feel alive. He joined up to sustain that, to get the continuous punches of adrenaline that made the world shine its brightest for him. 

Instead of fighting, he slumps. He's just so incredibly tired.

“C'mere, I wanna show you something,” Tony says, sliding the undrunk coffee from his grip, leading him over to the work station. A few moments of typing and a schematic appears, a limb, floating and slowly revolving in three dimensional holographic light.

“How?” Steve asks, finally. “I never...”

“The first day you visited, I had JARVIS scan you. This whole workshop is mapped with cameras and sensors. That's how the holograms can work like they do, why you can manipulate them the way that you can. It also means I can instantly scan biometric details for anyone who walks through the door. I mainly use it for inanimate objects, but in this case, I scanned your legs. I've been working on it in tandem with the arm for James, the whole time.”

“You should have asked,” Steve says.

“Would you have said yes?” Tony asks.

“No,” Steve says, but it sounds more uncertain than he would have liked.

“And that's why I didn't ask. Because I wanted you to be ready to say yes, before I did,” Tony says, like that makes perfect sense. “Here, play with the colours.”

Tony clicks the painting program that he used with James, and the schematic instantly turns from a skeleton of framework to a solid leg, complete with existing paint job.

Steve feels laughter bubbling up. He lets it out, after a second. He can't help it.

Tony smirks. “I was goofing around with it earlier. Here, pick a colour, make it how you want it,” he says.

“No, I love it,” Steve says.

“No, really,” Tony says.

“Yes, really,” Steve replies.

“It was a _joke._ You're shitting me, you cannot be serious.”

“I'm serious, paint it,” Steve says.

“There's something wrong with you,” Tony says, and tells JARVIS to run the paint specs, as is.

*

Steve can see there's a deep, beautiful shimmer to the paint on the leg when he's examining it minutely. Even the white looks pearlescent, rather than flat. Steve adores it.

“That is the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen,” Tony says heavily. 

“It's all mine, no take-backs,” Steve says.

“Even the pony arm was more dignified than that.”

“Just shut your trap and help me put it on,” Steve says, and for once, Tony actually listens.

The foot is a solid cherry red, which changes to vertical red and white striping at the ankle going up the calf. Just before the knee, it turns to a solid mid-blue, and around the mid thigh, where the prosthesis ends and what's left of Steve's thigh fits in, there's a ring of white stars, like a garter belt. On the kneecap, there's a series of fine red, white and blue rings with a single white star in the centre of it, like the bulls-eye of a target. 

“It looks like a candy cane,” Tony gripes. “Or a really patriotic stocking. You could take it on the stage.”

“I don't really see myself in spandex and sequins,” Steve snorts.

“You won't need an implant like James, not unless you really want one,” Tony explains, as his hands are deftly checking all the straps and buckles. “There are sensors in the cup and harness at the top, they'll pick up impulses and muscle twitches and interpret those signals as they would in a flesh and blood leg. Walking should be easier than in your old one. It wasn't just shaped wrong, it was about a quarter of an inch too short. Some lazy bastard must have measured you wrong at the beginning, and never bothered to check they had the right length before building it. A quarter of an inch doesn't sound like much, but I bet your back hurts, most of the time, right?”

“Right,” Steve agrees tentatively.

“C'mon, stand up for me. Give it a twirl,” Tony coaxes.

Steve braces his hand on the desk and pushes up until he's standing. “It feels good,” he says, hearing surprise in his own voice. There are still a bunch of the usual aches and pains, but it's like he's standing up straight for the first time in a year, and his centre of balance feels right in a way that he hadn't realised was missing until this moment.

“It's allowed to,” Tony says. “Now, sing me a number. _'Any bonds today? Bonds of freedom, that's what I'm selling,'_ ” he teases in a light baritone.

“You're an asshole,” Stave says, but he can't stop his smile.

“You're welcome,” Tony says, and returns it.

**Author's Note:**

> The thing about Steve being able to feel the pull of the arc reactor isn't my invention - it's taken from shaenie's [Don't Look Too Closely (all the angles are oblique) series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/29050), which it one of my favourite high-rated works in this fandom. It's the BDSM AU you never knew you needed, with experienced Dom!Tony to virgin sub!Steve. Well-written and well-depicted kink is really hard to find, and not many people who write explicit sex-focussed longfic also manage to make it sweet and character-driven and full of feelings. If kink is your thing, give it a try.
> 
> Bucky 'liking the metal' look of his arm also isn't mine - It's from AlchemyAlice's [Armed and Dangerous series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/17418), which in my opinion is the definitive work of the fandom which focusses on Tony building Bucky a robot arm. (I probably got the idea of putting a projectile weapon in James's arm from her, too.) It's clever and hot and involves a lot of team Avengering, and for added bonuses has adorable OC bots, and lovely threesome/poly resolution to pining. So, if you like any or all of those things, go read it.


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